


Here Comes the Sun

by Lulzy (likelolwhat)



Series: For the Love of a Meme [21]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: And Sweetrolls, Bad Lyrics, Biting, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Drunken Shenanigans, F/F, Frottage, Love Bites, M/M, Skyrim Kink Meme, Slow Dancing, Snogging, Surprise Ending, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 05:05:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3716212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likelolwhat/pseuds/Lulzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Civil War is over and it's time for the Imperial Legion to do what they do best: get drunk and trash Ulfric's place.</p><p>Hadvar and Fasendil, however, have better things to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Comes the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't born of any single kinkmeme prompt but rather a few of the more general ones together. Drunkenness, dancing and frottage were the main ones.
> 
> (Summary is a bit better now)

The General finally gave up on stopping the inevitable victory party, throwing up his hands in defeat and stomping away to presumably guard Windhelm's gates all by his lonesome. A few of the soldiers who were already too deep in their mugs cheered before the heavy doors to the palace slammed shut, making Tullius pause in the entry for a few seconds. He left without turning around.

Fasendil could very well imagine how much his superior's jaw hurt from all the teeth-grinding.

A makeshift band formed quickly, striking up a jig. Rikke and the Dragonborn were up on the end of the table nearest the empty throne already, giggling and twirling around each other. Mugs were in their free hands. Fasendil was surprised his fellow Legate could be so uninhibited, but he suspected she wasn't as drunk as she appeared. Even so, he mourned the loss of the perfectly good food that flew off the table with every high kick.

He looked around for his lover and spotted him just as he rescued a sweetroll from the path of the two women. Hadvar's ruddy face was split in a grin as he waved the treat at them — the Dragonborn laughed, shrill voice rising above the music — before retreating up the hall towards Fasendil. The other soldiers, most of them already stripped down to their undertunics, milled about, but Hadvar ducked between them deftly, avoiding a collision.

Fasendil was reminded of the Nord's footwork in battle. He shook his head, dispelling that thought. Hopefully neither of them would have to fight for their lives for a while. At least until the Empire was recovered, ready for a round two against the Dominion. This victory... some of the wounds left by the Great War might begin to heal now, he hoped. Or they would be torn apart again by another war.

"Hey," breathed Hadvar when he arrived. He was even more handsome up close, practically radiating relief, joy and love. While Fasendil knew most would call Hadvar plain or even ugly, the Legate alone saw what made the Tribune irresistible and — yes — beautiful.

"Hey. How are you doing?" Fasendil said, taking the offered pastry and tearing a bit off. It wasn't as sweet as the name advertised. None of the Nord dishes were anywhere close, and Fasendil found himself missing Altmeri fare, with its delicate crystal candies that melted in the mouth, more with every passing month. Still, the nutty treat was better than nothing.

At the question, Hadvar's smile faltered. He tried in vain to keep it on before finally giving up and sighing heavily, shuffling his feet. "Still won't talk to me."

Fasendil nodded solemnly, fearing as much. He studied his lover's expressive face as it flitted through emotions so quickly the Altmer could barely keep up.

"I suppose I should be glad he's alive, at least. Though..." He shook his head, biting his lip.

 _Though his rank means he may not be for long._ Fasendil finished the thought neither of them wished to speak aloud. Ralof had been promoted to a commander, and it was only by chance that he had been knocked out and not killed in the battle for the gates. Even more astounding, he had been found — by Hadvar himself — before he froze to death, Nord blood or no.

The Stormcloak's luck may have been used up, however.

"I'm sorry," Fasendil muttered, tearing into the sweetroll.

Hadvar snatched a chunk before it could all disappear. "It'll do no good to worry about him now," he said, speaking around the bread crammed in his mouth. A look of rapture coming over his face as he chewed.

"I should really introduce you to Altmer sweets," Fasendil mused, enjoying how positively sinful Hadvar's expression was. "If you think _these_ are good..."

Hadvar titled his head. "They're not made with moon sugar, are they?"

"No, no. I don't know what goes into them, or even if they're the same now as the ones my mother made when I was young, but they weren't addictive. Not in the way moon sugar is."

"I'd like that." That loving, almost dreamy smile... Fasendil's heart skipped a beat.

A door at the side of the hall burst open, startling the room. Both Hadvar and Fasendil reached for their swords, but then a brunette poked her head into the hall and shouted gleefully, " _I found the storeroom! BOOZE FOR EVERYONE!_ "

The assembled soldiers broke into deafening cheers and surged forward.

"I'll find some wine for us," Hadvar said, barely audible through the noise, and pecked Fasendil on the lips before darting away and disappearing into the mass of excited men and women.

The band started roaring out a popular Nordic drinking song. Fasendil knew some of the words from his time around the people of Skyrim, but not enough to feel comfortable singing along. Rikke and the Dragonborn, though, were screeching along, arms around each other as they swayed drunkenly on the table. The Legate had to pause to catch her breath after a moment, while the hero continued, Voice lacing the bawdy words. Dust erupted from the ancient stone ceiling high above, until Rikke — who was definitely more sober than she appeared — drew the Dragonborn into a sloppy kiss and averted disaster.

Fasendil averted his eyes from the women now dragging each other down to lie on the table just as Hadvar reappeared, a bottle of wine in each hand. "—until the day we diiiiie!" he chorused along with everyone else, lifting the bottles in toast to the band as the song wound down. Another cheer echoed through the hall at the last note.

"Thanks," Fasendil said, unstopping his bottle and throwing the cork to the side. He took a sip, marveling that Ulfric Stormcloak would have a stash of Surilie Family Vintage from before the Great War. What luck.

Hadvar settled on the bench with him, examining his own bottle curiously. "Never seen this kind before."

"The Great War wiped out most of Cyrodil's wineries for decades after. The Surilies' wine, along with all the others, is now collectible at a certain age, as when the vineyards reopened a few years ago they weren't the same," replied Fasendil, looking out over the celebration. He recognized many of the faces, but knew more than one of his subordinates wouldn't be at any party ever again. Rather than shed tears, here the survivors were, dancing and laughing and drowning in mead. _Nords have such odd customs around death,_ he thought. Still, some of the soldiers he knew were alive weren't present, either.

"Ha. I wonder how the Kingslayer got these. There were dozens more down there." Hadvar took a pull and rested the bottle against his thigh, leaning his head back against the stone. "I don't suppose we could rescue them...? The others were going towards the mead and brandy first, but it's only a matter of time before that's run dry." He tilted his head to stare at Fasendil with the eyes of a puppy.

"For personal use or profit?" The Altmer was a little queasy at the thought of imbibing all of the wine when it wasn't actually _that_ good, just rare.

"Profit. Not all for us, mind. I imagine the Legion always needs money."

"Hadvar, you are far too... I don't know. Whatever it is, you're too much of it for your own good." _Generous. Loyal. Naive._

He'd figure out that puzzle later.

His lover chuckled. "Come on, we've got liquid septims to find before it all turns to piss." He tugged Fasendil up with a strong arm, suddenly eager as a lad. "Literally!"

~~

Several hours later, the raucous party had wound down, oddly enough, to something of a couple's ball. Most of the soldiers had either stumbled upstairs to seek rest or found it passed out in chairs, on the table, and wherever they happened to be standing. The Dragonborn was sideways in the dead Jarl's throne, head and long, slender legs draped rather awkwardly over the stone armrests, snoring softly and mumbling something about cheese in her sleep.

Those still conscious, meanwhile, included the makeshift minstrels, four other couples in progressively worse stages of drunken shuffling that passed for slow dancing, and Hadvar and Fasendil. Both of the latter had managed to stay mostly, depressingly sober. The Legate because he had developed a tolerance for alcohol over the centuries, and the Tribune because he was a Nord and it would take more than a bottle of fine wine to get him plastered. Everyone else had gotten to the mead before him; all that was left was a half-empty case of sujamma someone had left on the palace steps (half-empty because Sevan Telendas had pounced on it first) and the Surilie wine, now safely hidden under the beds in the barracks.

Since neither of them wanted to try sujamma desperately enough to wake the Dunmer Legate, who had passed out lying on top of the remaining earthenware jugs possessively, the two of them were left the only halfway clear-headed people in the room. Even the soldier-bards had partaken of the mead and brandy before it all disappeared.

As they watched from the sidelines, a Khajiiti scout tried a maneuver too fancy for her intoxication and tripped over her Imperial friend's feet; they both went tumbling into a second couple. All four sprawled giggling on the floor, too drunk to get up, and an oblivious third couple tripped over the Khajiit's tail and fell with a _whump_ into the pile. As for the fourth, they, perhaps less drunk, managed to avoid the trap of limbs and swayed in the opposite direction, bumping into the table instead. Even then they did not fall.

They stood there, blinking, for several long seconds, as the band paused. Then, without a word, they stumbled towards the stairs, supporting each other as they headed to find a bed.

It was kind of sweet, actually, thought Fasendil. He hoped if he ever got so drunk Hadvar would let him cling that much. Especially considering how tall he was.

The jumble of fallen dancers had started to snore.

The band looked from them, across to Hadvar and Fasendil, and back again. "Any requests?" the lute-player asked, and they all looked pleadingly at their audience of two.

Hadvar opened his mouth but thought better of whatever he'd been going to say, instead shrugging and turning to Fasendil.

 _You only live once,_ the Legate thought as he sighed audibly. "I don't suppose you know 'Springtime in Summerset?'" It was a long shot, and he fully expected the band to shake their heads, leaving him to think of something else, but the tiny Bosmer girl who had been doing soprano piped up.

"Just a second!" She turned to her fellows and they held a whispered conference in a huddle while Fasendil stared bemusedly.

"'Springtime in Summerset?'" repeated Hadvar, sounding dubious.

"It's a love song," Fasendil reassured. "It's actually banned in the Dominion, I've heard, since it's about a mixed mer and human couple. Of course after they banned it the Thalmor made a new song using the same tune where the couple dies horribly and made all the bards learn it..."

"Romantic." But Hadvar was laughing. He stood up and ventured out onto the floor, choosing a spot well away from the scattered lushes. "I'm not that good a dancer," he said, studying his feet.

Fasendil considered this. He had never seen Hadvar dance, but he had expected the Nord's graceful footwork in battle to extend elsewhere. "It's an Altmeri waltz. Most people won't know it, anyway. Luckily, it's pretty easy for the one being guided. But if you're not sure...?"

Hadvar barked out another laugh, this one surprised as well as amused. "Of course I'm sure, I wouldn't be standing here if I wasn't. I'm just giving _you_ a chance to back out before I crush your feet." He winked.

"We _should_ probably take off our boots..."

The Nord shook his head, still amused, and they both shucked the heavy Legion-issue footwear.

Fasendil did a turn, to test if he would slide in his woolen socks, but the cold stone was rough enough to prevent slipping. "This will actually work nicely. I always preferred the tap of shoes on wood, but stone will do."

"After this you could show us the Wood Elf dances," Hadvar suggested to the soprano, who was just breaking out of her huddle.

"I don't think I'm drunk enough for that," she shot back with a laugh, but there was pain behind her smile — _too young to know her own culture before the Thalmor destroyed it?_ Fasendil thought — and the Nord wisely dropped the subject.

The couple drew together, Fasendil guiding Hadvar into position. His large hand was warm against his own smaller one. For a moment he just breathed the familiar scent of Hadvar in, locking their gazes. There was nervousness in Hadvar's eyes, yes, but also trust and determination. Fasendil chuckled and pecked him on the forehead just as the soprano signaled the band and the first notes came, unsteady at first but rising in strength.

Fasendil drew Hadvar into the first steps, feet quickly falling back into the old rhythm he had practiced so much as a young mer. Though he rarely had the opportunity to dance at all in Skyrim, somehow the steps always came back.

Hadvar was clumsy, it was true, and he stumbled over his own feet and Fasendil's often enough that the mer rejoiced in his foresight to remove the boots. But he murmured words of encouragement to the Nord as the soprano's lovely voice joined the harmony already created by the instruments.

_"Oh, my darling, how far we have come,_

_And how far we have to go,_

_For winter's wind has tempered our love,_

_We reap as others sow._

_The birds are chirping out their joy_

_In the vale we walk, you and I_

_Lost in love, making it count,_

_Hand in hand, soaring high."_

Hadvar moved his hand from Fasendil's shoulder to the back of his neck as they swayed, pushing firmly. Fasendil bent his head obediently, eagerly sacrificing the form of the dance for being closer to Hadvar. He'd expected a kiss, but instead they pressed their foreheads together. It was an awkward position to maintain, but at least the shorter man being on his tiptoes made his clumsy stomps hurt less.

"Think of it like a battle," he whispered when Hadvar nearly lost his balance. He'd caught him, of course.

"What do you mean?" Hadvar whispered back.

"You're so graceful when you're fighting—" He paused to admire the flush that crept up Hadvar's neck at the praise. "—so it would probably help to start thinking like you do when you're fighting."

"But I don't think."

"Precisely." He kissed Hadvar on the nose, pulling back to watch the Nord's epiphany.

And, gradually, though he still occasionally slipped up by thinking about his feet, the Tribune improved until the two of them became near-synchronized. The song had many more verses than could be practical for the end of a long night, so Fasendil was not surprised when the Bosmer skipped ahead to the last verses after the instrumental.

_"My dear one, I will wait for you,_

_And nothing can drag me away from you,_

_Even the cold embrace we'll all endure._

_For this is love, eternal and pure._

_And when we meet in the mists,_

_Flowers in my hair, blood on your wrists,_

_We'll be together on the distant shore_

_And walk in the vale forevermore._

_Ah, springtime in Summerset..._

_Ah, spring'll come again yet."_

They slowed their twirling dance — it wasn't quite a proper waltz, but Fasendil couldn't bring himself to care — even further as the singer hummed the last few notes before the song came gently down. The two stopped on the last note, eyes closed, foreheads touching, and stayed there in the silence.

Fasendil was struck with desire to taste those bow-shaped lips, and so he did: dipped down and captured Hadvar's mouth in a passionate kiss that drew titters and scattered clapping from the minstrels. He cracked one eye open and flashed a rude gesture in their general direction before gathering his Nord in his arms and guiding him back, lips still locked, towards the stairs. Hadvar was laughing breathlessly against his mouth as he was shuffled backwards. Though they had to pull apart to get up the stairs — Fasendil paused to slam the door shut against the catcalls — at the top they melded together again, Hadvar taking control to press the Altmer up against a wall and snog him senseless.

"Bed?" he gasped when he came up for air.

"Bed," Fasendil agreed, just as breathless. He poked his head into the rooms quickly. The ones closest the stairs were all full of passed-out celebrants, but at the very end he finally found an empty room. Or at least, no one was visible and no one was snoring.

As soon as Fasendil had thrown the deadbolt, Hadvar was tugging him back towards the bed in the center of the room. Fasendil steadfastly ignored the blue Stormcloak banners everywhere, but this was not difficult, what with his beautiful, eager lover holding him close. Hadvar fell back against the green bedspread, pulling Fasendil to lie on top of him, and for a few frantic moments their hands battled to see who could undress the other faster.

Ultimately, Hadvar won. It was easier to slide Fasendil's smallclothes down his sharp hips because he was on top, whereas Hadvar refused to lift himself off the bed until he was declared the winner with a kiss. "Hold on," Hadvar said, reaching into a small pocket in the bottom of his uniform before the Altmer could toss it aside. He produced a bottle of oil: a small thing, but enough for a frantic fucking in an unfamiliar place.

"Top? Bottom?" Fasendil queried, not minding either way.

But Hadvar smiled lazily and coated his hand, reaching down to gather both their cocks loosely in his fingers. "Neither."

"Oh!" Fasendil bucked his hips into the warm, tingly palm — that was some high-quality lube — sliding his long, curved cock over Hadvar's shorter, thicker one to build up more delicious friction. He'd not done this particular act in a while, but it was just as enjoyable as he remembered. He wrapped his arms around his lover's shoulders, while the Nord stroked down his back to squeeze his ass as they thrust against each other. They could be rougher this way, Fasendil thought, and he set a brutal pace that Hadvar easily matched.

Within minutes Hadvar was pressing down on his ass, grinding up against him and panting open-mouthed into the Altmer's neck. His steady stream of "oh"s was interrupted by a long moan as he came abruptly, and then, while still spurting, bit down hard on the junction of Fasendil's neck and shoulder.

The shock — though he had bitten Hadvar, Hadvar had never bitten him — was overridden by more pleasure than Fasendil could have expected, and he only needed to roll off the Nord and take himself in hand once, twice, before he too came in long ribbons over his stomach.

They laid side by side, holding hands as they caught their breath. Eventually, Hadvar muttered something about cleaning up to a half-asleep Fasendil and left the bed. The sound of drawers opening and shutting was unusually loud in the silence, until there was a pause. "Fasendil?" came Hadvar's soft voice, and the mer cracked open one eye, and then the other, to peer at the Nord blearily.

"What?"

Hadvar was standing at a desk, which was covered in papers. He picked one up and waved it at him. "A letter from Ulfric, unsent. And this, the seal." He indicated the metal object, which Fasendil knew instinctively would leave an impression of a bear's silhouette.

He said nothing, but his face must have betrayed his growing disgust.

"I think we just fucked in Ulfric's bed," Hadvar supplied helpfully.


End file.
